


Upon my Tarnished Soul

by FrozenPenguin



Series: And I'll give you all my Hart(win AUs) [4]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Character Death, Dishonored AU, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Older Man/Younger Man, Royal Eggsy, Secret Relationship, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5682523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenPenguin/pseuds/FrozenPenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>My name is Harry Hart. I’m in Coldridge Prison, solitary confinement.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>I have been here for one-hundred and sixty-five days.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Lee is dead. Eggsy is gone.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>I could have prevented it. It’s my fault.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sir Harry Hart, Lord Protector of the Royal family, has been accused of murdering the Emperor and plotting the disappearance of Prince Gary, Heir to the throne. The day of his execution draws near.</p><p>(While a game AU set in the Dishonored universe, you don't need to know anything about the game to enjoy this story)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon my Tarnished Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU based of the game Dishonored (2012), which I've only played through once, so I am relying heavily on the wiki and will use a lot of plot/dialogue from this universe, but also twists using Kingsman characters and my own imagination. There will be changes.
> 
> For instance, Eggsy's character is parallel with Emily's, but he is not a child in this story, and shares plot points with Empress Jessamine rather than Lee (who is the Empress' parallel).
> 
> Please enjoy the fic!

The high, leaking ceiling of his cell is the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes. The immediate rush and alarm of foreignness he had endured in his first fortnight of quarantine has long since gone. The sight is now familiar and uncomforting.

For a moment, he lies there, breathing and listening. In the distance, he hears the grating screeches of door hinges and metal gates clanking shut. The barks of guard dogs and the roaring cackles of their owners echo in the old prison walls. Closer is the tickle of water, dripping from the pipes above, and the muffled murmurs of the inmates in the solitary wing.

In his head, he counts the beats of footsteps, divorcing heavy boots from light leather soles, and deduces three guards to be on patrol—two of them long time regulars, one newly joined last week.

His body is yet waking, still numb to the stiffness of his sparse straw bedding. He knows he shall feel it soon, no doubt. His muscles itch to move.

 _My name is Harry Hart_. _I’m in Coldridge Prison, solitary confinement._

Like clockwork, the reminder ticks through his head. He exhales heavily and lies still for another moment; then, he sits up. He reaches beneath the wooden bench that is his bunk, pulling up a worn chalk piece. With it, he marks a line on the wall, diagonal over four others. Next to them, dozens more have previously been drawn or etched onto the stone.

_I have been here for one-hundred and sixty-five days._

He stands to stretch, arms reaching high and then low, pulling free the aches in his muscles and tendons. His hair, far longer than he would ever wear it in more liberated circumstances, falls into his eyes with his manoeuvres. He pays it no mind, and his stretches soon become repetitions. He expertly follows through with pulling himself up by the bars, pushing his weight and honing his psyche through a series of such methods; he feels his newly bruised ribs ache with the strain, but elects to ignore them. It’s a routine now, which he works through with monotonous ease.

He repeats it until a light sheen of sweat covers his brow and moistens his beard, unkempt by the lack of supplies. Not one soul in the yard would even think to give him a razor, out of fear of what he could achieve with it—a fear not entirely unfounded, to be perfectly fair. His mouth twitches as he thinks it.

With a last heave, he stops his exercise, lands on his feet and catches his breath. Stepping back, he leans against the cell wall, the cold of the bricks seeping through his thin cotton shirt. He still listens for the barking hounds and the creaking hinges. A sour wind howls through the yard, and the draft carries as far as to the cells. The month of High Cold has steadily brought its chills, and expenses for heating are hardly considered for the sake of prisoners.

He shivers and exhales heavily where he stands while his mind wanders to the hearth in his old chambers, his warm bed and soft sheets, and to the company he once had the pleasure of keeping there, and then the ache in his muscles moves on to twinge his heart with sour anxiety.

_Lee is dead. Eggsy is gone._

For the one moment, he allows himself to think on their smiling faces, eyes filled with warmth and laughter. His heart clenches painfully. Six months of confinement has taught him it is easier not to think of them at all, but he finds his restraint lacking as the days pass.

_I could have prevented it. It’s my fault._

New heavy footsteps join the previous ones, pulling him away from his self-pitying misery. He hears them steadily approaching his cell. Not moments later, a guard knocks a bat against the bars.

“Hart! Get ye arse o’er here, yeah? Hands out, nice and slow.”

Harry obeys the order, as it has been a common one ever since he first arrived. He steadily grips the bars and lets a nervous second guard reach in and cuff his wrists while the first man trains the barrel of a gun at his head. Once his hands are secured, they open his cell door and take their places on either side of him while a third armed guard waits to escort them out of the solitary wing. Harry’s mouth twitches into a resemblance of a smile.

“Now, gentlemen. I presume the interrogation room is our destination?”

They take none too kindly to his cheek, although after an incident in the very first week, no one dares take the bat to him. Instead, they settle for scowling at his mockingly nonchalant mask.

“Ye’re right about that, traitor—but if I was you, I would check me tone, I would,” the first guard warns. “See, the Lord Regent and High Overseer themselves came to pay ye a little visit.”

 _Now isn’t that curious_ , Harry thinks, genuinely surprised yet equally enraged, none of which his face betrays outside of a raised eyebrow. The guards urge him to start walking, which he does.

* * *

_Six Months Previously…_

After near a fortnight upon the open waters, at last the image of Pendragon Tower comes into view. It stands as a white pillar out of the murky waters where the mouth of the river Whiterun opens into the Foggy Sea, reflecting the sunlight off its pristine walls.

It is a beautiful and familiar sight to Sir Harry Hart, the Lord Protector, who is finally returning home having been gone near two months on the word of the emperor, doing his bidding out in the Isles.

His undertaking had been a desperate one, he acknowledges. Being, as he was, first and foremost the bodyguard of the Royal family it was a mission he had been hesitant to take on in the first place. However, he was also the only man Lee trusted enough to represent him fairly in a diplomatic climate. He had been grudgingly persuaded to leave within the week.

The plague permeating the streets of Oxford had by then become a great weight on Lee’s mind. Whilst the Empire’s best and brightest had been set to find the cause and a cure, their progress had been slow in coming and the Emperor had turned his head to the Isles in hope of learning that others might have dealt with the disease before.

While Harry, as many others in Lee’s council, had found the planned attempt despairing and improbable to yield results, he understands the Emperor’s person better than the court. Having been at his side ever since he ascended the throne when they were both still adolescences, he knows that if there is but a sliver of hope, Lee cannot rest until it’s perused. There are few limits to what he will do for the good of his people and loved ones.

Harry has hurried home, but not for lack of effort. His business has been meticulously done through and through with just the right amounts of finesse and curtesy expected of him. With nothing holding him back, he ordered his return two weeks prior to when he is expected, with no complaint from the captain and his homesick crew who are all on deck to watch the skyline of the city rise above the horizon the day they arrive.

They reach the river at high noon, docking in the deep river to let the Lord Protector leave the ship. His travel companions all small talk as their boat is lowered into the water, every one of them pleased with their swift return and planning to see their families and friends at the earliest convenience.

As they are cast away, James Spencer, captain in the City Watch, instructs the boat’s chauffeur with the charming manner of his. “Take us directly to the Tower, if you please. Lord Hart has urgent news for the Emperor, and we’ve come a long way.”

“A long way to bring bad news,” the chauffeur replies as he sets their course for the tower.

“Yes, I am afraid so,” James agrees, “but they must be brought, nonetheless, don’t you think?”

“Aye, Sir,” the man nods. “There’s been nothing but bad news brought, as of late. Some of the sailors say there is a curse upon us—black magic.”

“Superstitious nonsense, you must surely see,” the Captain waves him off. “After all, for all we know, there is a cure for the plague by now—or what do you say, Harry?”

“Perhaps so, indeed,” Harry accedes courteously, but feels it is a generous agreement on his behalf as he looks across the river into the darkened district on the other side. It had been decisively livelier before he left not two months earlier.

“Aye, perhaps. We do live in strange times,” the chauffeur says, cautiously eyeing the Lord Protector out of the corner of his eye as he steers the boat around a trawler and towards the pristine white walls of their destination. “Sending the Emperor’s bodyguard away for months—now _that’s_ unusual, I say.”

“Unusual, yes, and absolutely disagreeable,” concedes James, “but necessary. We need help with this rat problem. The Emperor was deterred from going himself with the troubles in the city. And who better to send in his place than Lord Hart? He knows the Isles from his days in the battle fleet. I’m sure he is acquainted with many customs, High Lords and Ladies out on the ocean waves.”

Harry gives him a wry smile, but has nothing to add as they reach the water lock.

James announces their arrival, and the lock is sealed behind them. The men above them instruct the activation of the system, and water soon gushes out of the pipes. There are new technologies added to the existing system in their absence, Harry notices—more pipes, making it possible to hold an even pressure. Within the half minute, instead of the three it would had taken previously, their boat is raised up the lock.

The moment Harry steps off and onto firm ground, familiar faces of the royal guards and the engineer crew greet him with surprised and relieved smiles. Harry nods at them in polite acknowledgement as he passes, and he bids his farewells to the chauffeur who is headed home to his wife and son.

“Sorry for the wait Captain, Lord Protector. It should go a bit faster, still,” the head engineer greets them, turning to his co-worker. “You know what to do next time now?”

“Yes, yes—the pressure was too low,” the man grovels, tampering with the gauges. “All these new machines are touchy.”

“Don’t do anything crazy. Valentine has changed everything again, and we don’t know what the hydraulics can do now.”

“We’ve got him here today doing a portrait—if there’s a time to try something crazy, it’s now!”

“I suppose.”

The men turn back to their work, and Harry and James decides to leave them be.

“Ah, home at last,” James smiles, waving his greetings to the men and women of the Watch, rather than giving the stiff, formal salute, which they expect of him. They allow the man his eccentricities, for he is a good captain and formidable opponent, Harry knows, as they have sparred often in their downtime on the ship. James turns to Harry, reaching out to shake his hand. “It’s been a pleasure traveling with you, Harry.”

“You as well, James,” Harry responds, lips quirking as the man slaps his shoulder in a friendly manner. They have become dear friends over their years of acquaintance, and have grown closer over their shared mission.

“Well, then. I will let you get to your report,” James finally says, grimly. “Lee should have had word of our return by now. He’s likely waiting for you. Give my regards to that old bugger—I have a bottle of the finest scotch in Tyvia that he probably has a more urgent use for than I do. Tell him I shall pop by, after supper at the latest.”

Harry makes the promise and thanks him again for his companionship on his travels, bidding his farewells as they part ways, and heads for the Tower.

“Lord Hart,” a guard—Williams, he recalls—greets him as he steps out of the water locks. “Fair voyage, sir?”

“Yes, quite,” Harry returns with a well-mannered smile.

“Very good, Sir. The Emperor is waiting for you in the pavilion.”

“Much appreciated,” he nods, and immediately heads out the gates and into the flowering grounds, set into blooming under the warm summer sun.

-

While his strides are quick and determined, he elects to take a short moment to make a side trip off his path, enjoying the view from atop of the cliff, across the waters and out into the open sea. Seeing the grandness of Oxford rising up around him is an awe-inspiring sight that never fails to remind him of the importance of his purpose. The city seems a shade bleaker than he remembers it, yet still grand, and he cannot help but feel anything but relieved to be home, anxious to return to his place by the Emperor’s side.

He continues on his path, in a swift and confident manner. Soon he makes a turn to go under the bridge and take the road up to the pavilion where Lee should await him, but just around the pillar, he is alerted of the presence of another person. Harry slows his pace just in time to avoid running into them; he is however still surprised as he recognises the face of the Prince as he halts before him, eyes wide and surely as startled as he is.

“Harr—” the Prince begins hurriedly, but stops himself and clears his throat. He speaks again, voice calm and courteous in greeting. “Lord Hart. You return early.”

“Your Highness,” Harry bows before him. “My trip has concluded far sooner than anticipated. I return just now to deliver a report to the Emperor.”

“I see. I trust your voyage was pleasant?”

“Very.”

To the naked eye, their exchange is entirely proper and goes as one might expect it to go, between a Lord Protector and his liege, but there is something different in their eyes, meeting the other’s in lingering gazes: restraint is slowly breaking beneath their tension, and within a moment, with a swift glance around them confirming no spectators, the Prince has caught the man by his sleeve, pulling him into an alcove beneath the bridge; there, the Lord Protector proceeds to push him bodily into a wall and kiss him fiercely.

They break apart for a breath of air nearly a full minute later, holding tightly onto the other in a passionate reunion of long-parted lovers, gazing longingly at the other although they are no longer apart.

Swallowing softly, Eggsy stands on his toes and kisses him chastely, pulling back to show his glee through a bright grin as he says, “Welcome home, Harry.”

“I am so, so happy to be, my dear,” Harry smiles back, a truly genuine emotion in his expression for the first time in weeks, and he kisses his lover once more, deeply, in no rush to taste him thoroughly once more, renewing the memory of his touch and scent. The Prince groans softly in approval, clutching the lapels of his travel coat and kissing back with the same indulgence.

With a last, lingering kiss, Harry strokes the Prince’s jaw, tracing its becoming sharpness and the rosiness of his cheeks, gazing lovingly into ocean-green eyes blown dark with want and adoration. “You’ve grown more handsome in my absence, while I fear I only grow older.”

“That’s bollocks, Harry—and you know it,” Eggsy reprimands, slapping his flank playfully, letting his hand linger there as he retorts, “Fittest man in the Isles, you is. Don’t look a day older, I swear.”

“On your honour?” Harry smiles, letting his own hands wander, eliciting an excited gasp from the young man when he brushes over his plump arse.

“Yes,” he replies breathlessly, reaching up for another sweet kiss to seal his promise.

Harry indulges him, having missed their closeness for every day he has been anywhere but near him, but knows that other obligations shall keep him from his embrace for a while yet. He sighs heavily as they part again, making Eggsy’s beautifully adoring expression scrunch into confusion, before he gently insists, “I should hurry and see your father.”

“You have time!” Eggsy exclaims hurriedly, clutching at his coat and clearly dreading to be parted from his lover a moment longer. Spitefully, he mumbles, “He’s busy talking with that nasty old Spymaster anyway…”

“As true as that might be—and you know I would never doubt your word, Eggsy—I believe my report far precedes the importance of whatever the Spymaster might need to discuss with him,” Harry explains softly, to Eggsy’s frustration.

The young man looks down at his feet for a long moment, but eventually concedes with a defeated sigh. He looks up, a wry, yet genuine smile in place. “Yeah, fine, I get it. I’ll come with you, ok? I wanna hear this too. Dad’s been saying I need to pay more attention to these things, so…to become a good leader one day, y’ know.”

Harry smiles back, pleased. “Very good, Eggsy. I’m sure you will be a marvellous Emperor when the time comes.”

A red flush reaches the younger man’s cheeks, and he grins bashfully up at the Lord Protector. “Thanks, Harry. As long as you’re there too, I think I can handle it,” he says gratefully, but then his expression grows more serious, yet again. “Actually… can we talk? Just for a moment—won’t take long, I promise.”

“Certainly.”

Eggsy is quiet for another moment, and then inhales. “I want to tell dad. About us.”

The wish is not what Harry had expected to hear. He blinks in genuine surprise, snippets of possible scenarios following such a confession racing through his mind.

“Now?” he asks.

“As soon as we can,” Eggsy says, biting his lip. “I’ve just been thinking a lot, while you was gone, see…if I’m gonna rule one day, I want to do it with you there—not, you know, to protect me, but as _you_ —just Harry Hart, none of that Lord Protector nonsense _._ You get me?”

There is a moment of silence where Harry can’t find the right words. It is entirely understandable that Eggsy would think about the future like this, and that he imagines Harry in it in such a way quite frankly has him _thrilled_ , and it’s entirely understandable that he would want to inform his father of his choice. He is also fully aware what their current affairs look like, in the eyes of outsiders, and the thought of Lee learning of them...Harry cannot help but feel it will be a difficult process, misunderstandings sure to arise if not handled delicately.

As the silence stretches thin, Eggsy becomes increasingly aware of his lover’s hesitation. He is, as always, as open as a book before Harry who easily recognises the alarm and anxious pain growing on his face as he stumbles over his words. “Do you… don’t you want to? Be with me…proper-like, I mean—not the sneaking around and—”

“Of course I do!” Harry quickly amends, breaking his rambles. Eggsy looks up at him, hopeful and gorgeous, and Harry knows in that moment he would do anything for this young man. He touches his cheek reassuringly, smiling. “And I promise we will tell your father—at our meeting today, if you wish… though I do not think he will take kindly to the news.”

Eggsy brightens up considerably at this, grinning wickedly as he pinches his side. “Don’t be daft, you old sod. There is no one in the entire Empire my dad trusts more than you. He was well distressed with you gone, you know,” he laughs, teasingly, but then throws his arms around him and speaks softly. ”I don’t think there is anyone he’d rather I be with, Harry. No one I’d rather be with, either.”

He plants a kiss on his cheek, and Harry resigns any argument he might have thought of for now, instead electing to ensure Eggsy that his feelings concerning wishing them to remain together is mutual at every point.

“Now, let’s be off,” he finally says, and steps out of his lover’s embrace. They walk out of the alcove, their distance as proper as expected between Prince and Lord Protector, and make their way up through the gardens, exchanging stories from Harry’s travels and from the general standing of society and life in Oxford as had occurred in his absence.

Eggsy is engrossed in Harry’s accounts of the whale sightings he had made, much to the Prince’s amazement, when they pass by a high, well-lit patio occupied by none other than High Overseer George Hesketh, having his picture painted in oils by a man dressed in near scandalously bright fashion who Harry recognises as the famous inventor Richmond Valentine, a man he has only met once previously in the Emperor’s Council Chambers.

Eggsy stiffens by his side as the grim gaze of the High Overseer lands on them, observing especially Harry with curious scrutiny.

“Good day, Your Highness— and welcome back, Lord Protector,” he greets from where he poses, inclining his head in a slight bow, to the frustration of Mr Valentine.

“Oh, come on, man! This is the zillionth time I’m telling you to hold still, Georgie! If you want this painting to be in your likeness, you had damn well start holdin’ your pose,” Valentine hisses. There is a prominent lisp to his words, Harry notes.

“Looks nothing like him anyway,” mumbles Eggsy, to Harry’s amusement, as they return the greeting.

Valentine then turns around, and for a second the Prince is almost afraid he has heard him insult his work, but he makes no impression that he has as he grins brightly at the newcomers. “Hey what’s up, kid? And Lord Hart, my man! It’s good to see you. Welcome back—from wherever you’ve been.”

“They sent him all around the Isles to beg for aid,” Hesketh pipes up.

“Well waste of time and personnel, that was. Lord Hart’s place is by the throne, after all.”

“I am glad to be back, Mister Valentine,” Harry shoots in, and then nods at the painting. “I hadn’t known you were also appreciative of the fine arts, in addition to your insight in the sciences.”

“This little project? Well to tell you the truth, I’m getting real bored of these people—so bored I was forced to pick up some new hobbies to get my hands working on something while my brains does its thinking, you know?” the man gestures to the utensils strewn around him, an array of painting tools and papers that look to describe chemical formulas of sorts.

They draw Eggsy’s attention, and the Prince steps aside and studies them in earnest while the conversation continues. Valentine smiles, nodding approvingly as if he enjoys the Prince’s interest. He looks to Harry with an expression as if to say as much, and Harry privately agrees. Eggsy had always been a very clever boy, and it shouldn’t surprise him if he could make sense even of the work of Richmond Valentine.

“Say, perhaps you can brighten up the society around here a tad?” Valentine suggests as he gets back to his portrait. “A new and famous face would be a joyous addition to the parties—especially now that my elixir is close to completion. A few more weeks, and I can promise this whole plague thing will be a thing of the past—too bad your little trip is turning out to be pretty useless now.”

The word of an elixir catches Harry’s attention, but the High Overseer looks like he has heard it before and is not particularly excited regarding the news. He clears his throat from where he stands and partakes in the conversation. “It was a fool’s errand, Harry. The plague comes from inside. No foreigners can save us—not from our own corrupted society—and no elixir either. Remember our teachings: to every man his choice, to every man his fate.”

“Ach, you need to stop being such a damp cloth, Sir High Overseer. My elixir will ensure the future of the city,” insists Valentine. “Also, you’re moving again!”

“Say what you will,” Hesketh huffs. “The plague has brought the fateful to our doors. If the people unite in our fate, we shall see it banished sooner or later.”

“Religious nonsense,” Valentine mumbles, just loud enough for Harry to hear. He turns to him privately. “Tell me, Lord Hart, do you put yourself at the mercy of the spirits?”

Harry hums softly, his gaze straying and lingering on Eggsy’s hunched form for a moment before he answers. “I’m afraid I have yet to meet a spirit, and certainly not one to which I would plead for mercy. I believe in only what my sane conscious perceive—the human mind, flesh and nature.”

Valentine snorts, amused, but his tone remains serious. “I didn’t wait for no religion to drag me away from sorting scraps at the factories in Serkonos. I dragged myself out of there, built my career with no Overseer or spirits showing me the way,” Valentine says. “I trust you saw my improvements on the water lock? A few adjustments here and there, some new pipes and regulators, boom! Takes twenty-three seconds flat for any boat to reach the top. That, my friend, is application of genius. _This_ ,” he gestures to his nearly finished painting, “is insulting it.”

“Yet you have picked such a hobby to excel in?” Harry queries.

“Art is a science in itself, and much worth my time. This particular use of my talents? A waste. But I do what the realm asks of me, and I suppose I must _preserve_ our High Overseer for future generations of the fateful to marvel at,” he drawls, adding more red to the High Overseer’s coat. “I do my duty, but not gladly. Hesketh ain’t no beauty, and he has no brains in him either. The realm doesn’t understand the importance of my work—not like the prince-kid does,” he nods over to Eggsy again, who has swiftly moved through the papers, holding up several at once and looking to make sense of the unorganised chronology. “Now, the Emperor understands, too—that _science_ helped me, and _understanding_ science will help with the plague, also.”

“An endeavour I hope you are successful in,” Harry concedes, truly meaning it.

-

As they walk, Harry learns from Eggsy that Richmond Valentine has been a regular face on the Tower’s guest lists in his absence, and with good reason: in the past months, the inventor has made crucial medical discoveries that show promise for treating and perhaps curing the plague. That alone is enough to make him a person of interest to Lee, although it is clear that the Abbey and the Overseers do not share the opinion.

He also learns that Eggsy has developed a high regard of the man’s genius, and has taken to study under him when their schedules allow it. Valentine has agreed to tutor him in chemistry and physics due to his keen interest in the subjects, having told Eggsy that a future Emperor in this day and age of industrial revolutions should have respect and understanding for the discoveries made in sciences.

The man is more than his genius however. “He likes parties,” Eggsy explains, “seriously loves them, he does. If you’ve heard of one, it’s either because it was good enough for him to be there—or he made it good enough to hear about. Likes expensive alcohols too—much like you, Harry. I think you’d make good friends.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “And is this penchant another one you have acquired in my absence?”

“Partying?” Eggsy snorts, “Only dinners at the Tower. Dad has hardly let me leave the grounds without you here escorting me, much less go to parties with an eccentric genius.”

“Your father has good judgement, then.”

The prince laughs. “See, this overprotective streak you share is _exactly_ why he favours you.”

“Your safety is paramount compared to his judgement of my character,” Harry argues, but cannot conceal his twitching lips and flushing cheeks; an unusual and undesired visage of smugness that Eggsy looks upon adoringly.

When the pair finally reaches the gardens around the pavilion, they find the Emperor is still in conversation with the Spymaster.

Harry has known Chester King since he first came to Pendragon Tower, and while their objective through the years had been largely similar – the protection of the country and its Royal Family – he had never had much fondness for him. Chester is a cold, calculating man in his older years with an inclination towards holding tradition sacred. His support to the Abbey and origin in an old noble family had earned him a high standing in the social hierarchy and powerful friends in the Empire.

As they draw closer to the pavilion, the conversation is clearly audible to them. They both come to a halt as Emperor’s voice is raised in outrage.

“They are sick people! Not criminals,” he exclaims, and the Spymaster’s mouth twitches downwards into a grim frown.

“We have far since gone beyond such questions, your Majesty. They’re—” he begins, but the Emperor will hear none of it.

“They are my citizens, whom it is my duty to protect from harm. We will save them from the plague, if we can. All of them.” The Emperor exhales heavily, holding his manner calm once more, as he says, coldly, “We shall discuss this no further.”

Chester nods. “Very well.”

In that moment, Lee raises his head and sees his son and his bodyguard standing in the gardens. “Harry,” he breathes, relief dancing in the utterance of his name. The Emperor turns to the Spymaster. “Chester, please leave us.”

“As you wish,” Chester bows, and briskly turns and descends the stairs. He comes to a halt in front of Harry, nodding politely as he greets him, “Lord Protector. It is very good to see you.”

“You as well, Spymaster,” Harry returns in the same polite manner.

“A fortnight early—full of surprises, are you not? As usual, of course.”

Harry’s mouth twitches. “I do aim to keep you on your toes, after all.”

“Certainly,” Chester agrees, and if his nonchalant display has irked him, he does not show it. “It is good to have you back. Things have not seemed nearly as… safe without your presence.”

“How curious that you should say that,” Eggsy suddenly pipes in, glaring sourly at the older man, although his sweet tone of voice betrays the venom in his eyes. “I seem to recall that you were very adamant in insisting Lord Hart’s participation in this trip.”

“Indeed I did, your Highness. He was undoubtedly the best candidate—as he has proven with his early return,” Chester simply nods at the booth of them, and takes his leave. Eggsy exhales his frustration once the man is out of earshot and goes to his father’s side. Harry goes to follow him, but first looks back to see Lord King leave with one of the watch Captains.

Once they are gone, Harry too ascends the stairs to the pavilion, bowing courteously before the Emperor. Lee is smiling widely at him as he looks up, but there are tired lines in the face of his old friend that have grown deeper and darker in his absence. The telltale signs of sleepless nights are in his posture, and Harry’s growing worry is reflected in the eyes of the Prince who looks at his father with deep concern; however, there is also joy, for the Emperor’s visage is brighter than it has been in weeks.

“My dear friend,” Lee marvels, touching his shoulder with a heavy hand, and bringing his son closer with the other; a trinity of affection. “It is a fair wind that brings you home to us.”

Eggsy beams at the both of them, glancing at Harry with a smugness in his gaze that reveals him certain of the claims of Lee’s regard for him, which they had discussed not minutes ago.

Harry smiles back at them both, his own hand clutching Lee’s on his shoulder as he replies, “A fair wind, indeed, my friend—but I’m afraid a foul one might be approaching.”

As he says this, their smiles all fade. Lee queries, “What news have you brought?” and Harry is already digging into the pockets of his travel coat to pull out a letter from a spokesman for the Isles.

The Emperor opens it with twitching hands, his face scrunched in concentration as he reads the contents. The prince looks on anxiously, sometimes glancing at Harry from the corner of his eye, but not a word is exchanged as Lee reads the letter.

It is with a grim expression Lee raises his head. “I… I had hoped that another city might have dealt with this before. Knew of some cure.” He pauses, looking down at the letter again to read it in more detail, as if hoping to find the words have changed. “These news are very bad. We’re already at the breaking point.”

Suddenly, he turns away from them, the letter slipping through his fingers as he crosses his hands behind his back, looking out across the river where Oxford stretches before them.

“Cowards!” he suddenly curses, and Eggsy looks to Harry, confused, while Harry knows exactly what news Lee has just learned of.

“They are barricading us,” Harry voices out loud for the Prince’s benefit, then grimly continues. “They are cutting out all trade and supply to protect their own borders. They will be waiting to see if the plague turns the city into a graveyard, unless a cure is found.”

“But Valentine’s elixir!” Eggsy chimes in, hopeful, “It will be ready in just a few more weeks. They’ll reopen the borders once we start mass-production—we just have to hold on until then.”

Lee touches his son’s shoulder again, smiling tiredly. “Your faith in the man in admirable, my son, and I wish mine was as strong. Though I suppose it will have to be, now. Mister Valentine’s success might be our final hope.”

“He will succeed! I know it,” the prince boasts, his energy brightening his father’s face, and Harry’s. His eyes seek out the Lord Protector when he speaks next, his voice softening, tinged with nervousness. “Until then… Dad, I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time, and I just spoke with Harry about it, so... See, me and Harry, we—”

“Wait,” Harry suddenly breaks him off, and for a second Eggsy looks at him angrily and betrayed, but his mind is running on high alert and before the Prince can begin to voice his hurt he says, “The guards have gone.”

Both Lee and Eggsy look to the outposts and find them empty, alarm quickly growing on their faces. “Who sent them away?” Lee asks, protectively pulling Eggsy closer to his side.

“I don’t know,” Harry says, but his hand his already resting on his pistol as he surveys their surroundings.

However, it is Eggsy who first says, “What are they doing on the rooftop?” alerting both the Emperor and the Lord Protector to the black shadows of approaching figures that move as smoke across the roof of the water lock, only to disappear and reappear at the edge of the pavilion.

“Protect Eggsy!” Lee commands, pushing the Prince behind them as they both draw their weapons. The order, of course, is taken by Harry as absolute.

“Dad!” Eggsy protests, not taking kindly to being denied to fight, but he is also unarmed and in shock as the assailants clash with Harry and his father.

Harry and Lee both fight with practiced skill. While Lee is formidable with the sword sturdy in his blocks, Harry is a whirlwind of singlehanded fencing and raining bullets. But the assassins move with strange, agile grace. In one moment, when his aim holds true and his pistol fires a bullet to the centre of one attacker’s head, Harry swears he sees him scattering into ashes, moving in the wind.

However, strange the enemies are, they fight them off and force them into a retreat. When the last of them disappears into dust and smoke, they all breathe their relief and Eggsy throws himself over both of them, holding them tightly for a long moment.

“F-fuck… holy shit, what just happened?” the prince mumbles, still in shock from the fight he just witnessed. “Were they spirits?”

He looks to Harry for answers, but he cannot but wonder himself of the exact same impossible possibility.

“Harry,” Lee says, breathlessly. “Thank you. If you hadn’t been here, I can’t but think we—”

Then the Emperor freezes, and just as Harry notices the presence behind him, Lee pulls him forward, out of the way, taking the sword meant for his back—because the man had never truly let Harry protect him, always playing the role of protector as his nature made him such a man—and just as Eggsy screams and Harry goes to retaliate, another assailant materialises before them, and Harry cannot move.

He is demobilised, shrouded in strange, dizzying light, ears filled with strange whispers, feet leaving the floor as he hovers in the air, immobile and helpless. He can only watch as the first assailant withdraws his sword from the emperor’s chest, watch him slump to the floor as Eggsy cries out for his father before another assailant appears, restraining the Prince and putting a strange cloth over his mouth and nose. Eggsy struggles for a moment, and then passes out in the arms of his captors.

Within moments, they disappear, and Harry crashes into the ground.

His body aches, and his head spins as he clambers over to Lee’s limp form, turning his friend into his lap to find him still gasping for air while his lungs fill with blood. Quickly, Harry finds the puncture hole and puts his fingers inside, but it is too late to do anything. The sword has snagged his heart, and he will bleed to death within the minute.

“Ha-Harry,” Lee coughs, his familiar ocean-green eyes already glazed and far away. “It’s all—it’s coming a-apart—”

“Lee, my friend,” Harry utters brokenly, in shock as he suddenly realises that the Emperor is dying in his arms.

“Eggsy—find Eggsy, protect him,” Lee insists, using the last of his energy to make him promise this. “You are the only one I—we love you, so very much, and he—”

Lee coughs again, blood staining his lips, and Harry whispers, “I promise, I promise you,” over and over again, reassuring his friend as his skin grows colder. He is almost certain Lee is smiling then.

“You’ll know what to do… won’t you, Harry?”

Those are the last words that pass the Emperor’s lips, and not moments later the royal guards storm the platform with High Overseer Hesketh and Chester King at their heels. The first thing they see is Harry, covered in blood, with Lee’s dead body held in his arms.

“Ward us all,” the High Overseer gasps, pointing accusingly at him. “Look at what he did!”

“Yes,” Chester immediately concedes as the guards draw their weapons at the Lord Protector. “He has killed the Emperor.”

The Spy Master looks around them as the guards surround Harry, and then asks him, “What have you done with Prince Gary, you traitor?”

“The Lord Protector…” Hesketh murmurs. “Their own bodyguard. How ironic.”

“I will see you beheaded for this, Hart,” Chester seethes, and instructs the guards. “Seize him, at once.”

Before Harry can protest, or indeed protect himself, the hilt of a sword hits his head and brutally knocks him out, cold.

* * *

_Present time…_

Harry hears the rustle of metal chains and the crackling of a burning fire pit. He opens his eyes to see only darkness. His entire body is aching, but more so the skin of his chest, searing with pain. He tries to move his limbs, but realises he is restrained, iron cuffs digging into his sore wrists and legs.

 _Still in the interrogation room then,_ he thinks to himself. _I must have passed out again._

Abruptly, his blindfold is torn off and his pupils constrict against the sudden addition of light.

“This is your final chance Harry. Sign the confession,” High Overseer Hesketh pleads with him. “Do it for your conscious, and let me give you the rites to put your spirit at ease.”

Harry would have laughed if he could, but his expression must have displayed his disobedience in either case, for Hesketh nods to the interrogator who brings a white-hot metal rod from the coals and presses it to his skin.

He shouts out with the searing pain, voice hoarse from the screaming his throat has already endured. It lasts for but a moment, but feels like minutes before the torture withdraws.

He is still breathing heavily, feeling his skin blister and scorch, when Lord Regent Chester King walks into his line of vision.

“That’s enough for now,” Chester orders. “Leave us. Let the man have a moment to think on his preposition.”

The interrogator does as told, shoving the rod back into the coals. The door clanks shut behind him, leaving Harry with the two men.

“Harry, my friend,” Chester starts, and Harry would spit at him if he could for even attempting such an approach. He seethes on as Chester continues. “The Emperor is dead. His son, Prince Gary, is hidden away…and no one will ever know the truth. Except you, Harry Hart.”

The confession, which he hasn’t heard before, not once in the past six months, shocks him, and he bristles with sheer anger. “ _You_ ,” Harry snarls. “You were behind this all along. You knew I didn’t do it.”

“Yes, yes, unlucky you,” the High Overseer gloats. “Your execution draws near, but know it is for a good cause. This empire needs strong leadership now—someone to guide the weak—and that’s where we come in.”

“There was nothing personal about this,” Chester proclaims, but Harry is convinced otherwise. Chester never did like him, for his closeness to the throne. “You were simply an unforeseen obstacle to our plans, wrong place at the wrong time… or the right one, considering how it all turned out—quite nicely, if I may say so myself.”

“And now you’ve become Lord Regent. Is the title of Emperor next on your list, Chester? You have always been greedy for rising in the hierarchy,” Harry mocks him, his anger rising with every passing moment.

This is the reason why none of his pleas for innocence has gone through. They were martyring him for their cause.

“Oh no, you know I prefer working behind the scenes. I quite enjoyed being Spymaster,” Chester explains, smugly. “In fact, Prince Gary will be reinstated on the throne. Once we locate his sister and mother, and have brought them to Oxford, the Overseers will perform a heroic rescue of the Prince from an unknown group of rebels that worked under the deceased Harry Hart. The masses will be pleased by his return, and we will have the means to become his puppeteers once he is crowned.”

Harry nearly growls with the hatred he feels for the man in that moment, but what truly makes him rattle his chains like a wild beast is Chester’s next claim.

“Moreover, perhaps the new Emperor will be so overwhelmed by gratefulness to the High Overseer for his efforts he will fall for him and announce their engagement at the earliest convenience. A happy ending for us all,” Chester gloats, nearly grinning as Harry roars as he struggles in the restraints. “Originally, we had to consider your presence by his side, but it is better this way, don’t you think? After all, someone has to take the fall.”

Chester smiles condescendingly down at him, before he and Hesketh turns to leave.

“Goodbye, Harry Hart. Thank you very much for your services to the Empire.”

-

Harry is brought back to his cell, angry and tired, and counting the hours to his execution. It is a fate he has near well accepted. After all, he failed Lee, and he failed Eggsy.

He bitterly thinks on his promise to Lee, to find his son and protect him. His only comfort now is the confirmation he has received that Eggsy is still alive, somewhere, even if there is nothing he can do about it, or the oncoming future of pain and distress awaiting the young man in possession of his heart.

They know he is capable. Security is tight, and there are no loopholes for him to take advantage of. He has no chance to leave this prison before he is, in the morning, escorted to his beheading; he has well, and thoroughly, _failed_.

Then, something happens.

A guard, who shields his face instead of sneering at him openly, has come to deliver him a meal. Harry doesn’t recognise the pattern of his footsteps, and looks up, curiously, as he puts the plate down just outside the bars.

“You should eat, Hart,” the guard says, “This meal comes from a friend.”

He then departs, and after several minutes, Harry stands up and staggers over to the bars. On the tray, there is a simple glass of water and a loaf of bread—not much of a last meal, he thinks—but he is, admittedly, hungry. He reaches to the other side and picks up the loaf, but his fingers also brush against a piece of paper hidden underneath it.

His heart beats faster. In a hurry, he picks up the note and the bread, quickly retreats to his bed and straightens the paper. It reads:

_Harry Hart,_

_Who we are is irrelevant right now. Just know that we have faith in you._

_Head for the prison’s interrogation room. There you should find explosives to plant on the outer doors. When it goes off, run. Head for the river and lose yourself in the sewers. We have left you a little gift there._

_A guard will leave a weapon for you just outside your cell._

_Good luck. We will need you alive and well for what’s to come._

_-A friend._

He tears the loaf apart and, sure enough, in the loaf of bread is a key that Harry wagers fits his cell door.

He holds it up with a trembling hand and thinks of Eggsy, alive, somewhere. All the resolve he had thought lost returns to him.

_Find Eggsy. Protect him._

_You will know what to do… won’t you, Harry?_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and hopefully enjoying this AU! Kudos and comments are very welcome! I have another one-shot I'm working on that is actually _not_ an AU, so that could be interesting...
> 
> (This is a one-shot for now, but if people like it I might feel like putting effort into a multi-chapter fic.)
> 
> -A


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